The Necromancer of Gravestone
by RTS-Stranger
Summary: The beginning of a story staring a young cowboy named Shane who lives life as a bounty hunter in the American West. Sometimes his bounties are regular humans, sometimes they're that of the supernatural. This first chapter tells us of a encounter with a Ne


The Necromancer of Gravestone By Ryan H 

_Chapter 01: Shane and the Necromancer_

The sound of my snakeskin boots softly trudging the ground was the only thing that reached my ears in this place. The scent of death and dirt clung to the air like an infant clinging to it's mothers nurturing womb. The kind you taste for days after your first drink of bad whiskey. Light from silver moon overhead made my shadow dance across the sulken ground. The massive dark spot that was my domed wide black hat on my head reminded me of my Pop. He always taught me not to be afraid of anything, especially the dark. His words echoed in my head…

"_Shane… The darkness is nothing to be afraid of. People fear the darkness due to ignorance. But you… You can fight it, and see right through it. Never fear the dark, for there is nothing to fear within."_

Since then, I've embraced everything night and it comes in handy. Especially during nights like this.

I clutched my cow-hide coat against myself and felt for the handle of my revolver for comfort at this sight of this place. I remembered what Spirit Wolf, the indian that taught my father about the Darkness had inscribed on the back of it.

_Protection from those who are Wicked_ it read in Fox's native language. But not even that made me feel better about what I was seeing.

The tombs of all those long dead and forgotten still standing here, dying away, forming memories nobody gives a shit about anymore. All these dead are just that, corpses taking up valuble land we could use for grazing or growing life. The only reason I'm even in this place is for the bounty… who couldn't pass up the chance at thirty goldlets? The thought of the money made my mouth water… I could have my first decent meal in weeks. Then again, I seemed to be the only one who bit this wriggling worm. Who would be stupid enough to hunt a guy who calls himself the legendary necromancer Vladimir?

I stepped over what seemed to be a newer mound of someone I've never heard of or cared for. I gazed side to side, seeing only the repetitive shapes of the tombstones outlined in a thick fog from the local swamp. Not a sound was coming from around me. Not the chirping of crickets or even the motion of mice. Just … silence. The bounty described him as a dark-haired tall skeleton of a man who wreaks of blood and wears a heavy cloak. Didn't help me much … but it was better than nothing.

Then I smelled it. No… this isn't something you smell. Its something you _sense_. Magicks. It's the kind of sense that you feel in the very back of your throat, faint and lingering. Faint chanting invaded my ears as I stepped in the direction my instincts told me where the magick was originating from. Quietly, over the mounds of dirty and grass I peaked above a particularly large tombstone and my eyes nearly jumped out of their sockets.

It was exactly how they described it. A pale, skeletal man sat in a clearing just before the tombstones. A ragged black trenchcoat and matching messy pants stuck to his frame like a scarecrow made by a retarded six year old. He was sitting in an akward pose above a partially dug-up grave. The owner of the grave was half buried, his pale face, half-eaten by worms, completely oblivious of the obvious raping of his sacred tomb. My Pop had told me everything about the darkness. Lycans, witches, worlocks, merpeople, demons, half-demons, and even a bit about necromancers … but this is the first time I've ever gotten to lay my eyes upon one.

The necromancer's hands were stained with blood. I couldn't recognize it … it smelled like cow's blood. Or maybe chickens? My Pop always thought that the recognition of blood was useful… for what, I have no fucking idea. The dagger the pale necromancer gripped in his thinning fingers made my hunting blade look like a butter knife. He raised his blade and his eyes rolled to the back of his head as he mumbled some language I couldn't quite understand, that actually sounded a bit Japanese, and thrust the blade in a long, smooth motion down his forearm to his wrist. I winced and shivered at the sight of it … you could see the white of his tendons and bones gleaming from his ruptured arm.

I flinched and ducked back behind the tombstone I was hiding in and held my mouth, so to force back the contents of my stomach from coming back up to visit me. It was all too much … the smell of blood and of the dead, the tingling of magicks and the idiot cutting apart his arm like a Thanksgiving turkey… My eyes started to water at the stink. I tried to alleviate the stick by gripping my revolver and held it so tightly it made my joints hurt and crack.

Didn't really help… Damn.

Even though the stench of the dead snuck up my nostrils, the sounds of the worms eating away at the flesh of that poor dead fool and the site of the Necromancer's blood stained my eyes, one thought persisted in my mind: thirty goldlets. Thirty friggin' goldlets. I needed this money more than I've ever needed anything before. I've had to use my emergency-emergency goldlets. In other words, I have about as cash in my pocket as this dead man beside me.

I could sure go for a burger.

I peaked behind the gravestone and found the pale Necromancer dripping his blood atop the dead man and mumbling something again. Forget about the burger. I think I've lost my apetite. I reached for my hunting knife held it in my right hand and my revolver in my left, though I am left-handed. My Pop taught me this stance and called this weird style of combat _Up-Close-Killing­. _He said he learned it himself, back in the day while sneaking into indian campgrounds and stealing crap from them to sell. Its useful if you need to get up close, on account that it keeps your right hand free to grab and use that blade which I held.

I crept around the tombstone, quiet as a mouse. A mouse with a six-shooter and a blade the size of a cow leg. The Necromancer seemed to not take notice of anything around him, which was good for me. I slipped under the shade of a sad-looking tree and used it for cover, disecting the surrounding area.

I spotted white feathers, those of a chicken, which I deduced was the blood I smelt and saw earlier. I also noticed a dirty old top-hat like them performers and medicine-pushers wear. It was line with what looked like the skulls of several small monkeys and a few large and varied feathers ranging from all colors to a black raven's feather to that of a brown owl. A few other things were the likes of a shovel, a few other daggers which reminded me of a doctor's set of blades and then I saw something that made a shiver run up my spine. It was a skull. It wasn't new… all the flesh had been cleaned of it. It let out a disturbing aura that I instantly disliked. History books claimed that the legendary necromancer Vladimir carried around the skull of his mother for various reasons. Some argue that it reminded him of his heritage, wherever that is… others say that its like a battery or an amplifier for his power. Whatever the case was, there was a fucking skull by this fucking necromancer and it was really pissing me off.

Page, the sheriff of my fair town of Gravestone wanted him alive for questioning. I hate it when the bounties are for alive. So much more fucking work. But whatever, I have to knock this fucker out and drag his carcass out to the sheriff. Just thinking about touching this scarecrow's boney skin makes my skin crawl.

I left the comfort of the shade from this dead tree to begin my hunt. I came from behind and slowly started towards the Necromancer. He had both arms raised and was whispering in his strange language so fast that I'm sure a normal human's vocal cords would surely fry. He gripped his massive bloodied-blade with both hands and flung it down toward's the dead with deadly precision over the heart. In this instant I felt a wave of magick pass over me like a fire. I had to hurry.

I was at least 10 feet within him when I felt another sense of magick, but something like hitting a massive wall of spider-web, not strong enough to stop you, but enough so you can feel it. He Instantly came out of his trance and turned his head around like an owl with eight-ball sized eyes and he howled and jumped up.

"Sit your ass down, partner, your game is over!" I shouted, using both hands to aim my revolver. I gripped my blade while doing so, of course.

The Necromancer hissed and spat as he shouted in that weird language of his. I shook my head and inched close.

"Just sit your ass down and I won't kill you, you dirty scarecrow!" I spat right back at him while grinning. I felt my heart thumping so hard in my chest I thought it was going to jump right out.

Then the bastard did exactly as most of my bounties do when I confront them. Run towards me with a large weapon. His huge butcher knife in his good hand (his cut arm was dangling like a frail leaf on a tree. After a split second of aiming at about his throat, I remembered _ALIVE_ and pointed my barrel at his kneecap and squeezed the trigger hard and a massive CRACK of my gun broke the chilly silence of the cemetary.

But nothing happened. Did I miss? Impossible! I fired again and he was annoyingly close. I decided to go hand to hand.

The Necromancer, like the untrained guy with a huge knife always does, swung his massive blade in a diagonal fashion which I blocked with the hilt of my carver and struck his side with my elbow which sent him careening back a few feet but I noticed not a shout of pain or a wince of any kind… Like my strike didn't even hit him.

Scarecrow man rushed me, this time shanking his blade forward. I grabbed his wrist and sent him flying above my shoulder onto the ground. He felt that one, the bastard! I fired at him again, this time at his ankle. He jumped back up and took a few steps back, shouting angirily in his gibberish language.

He begin to run backwards, still talking and throwing his blade towards my feet lazily. I raised my gun and fired at his back and could have sworn I saw my bullet bounce off him.

I grit my teeth and stepped to chase him, but I felt something grip my foot. These freaking plants around here! I swung my blade down towards my foot to cut off the plant or whatever was gripping me then what I saw made me swallow my heart. The dead man the Necromancer was pour his blood all over had reached up and grabbed my foot with his half-eaten hand comprised of little flesh and much more bone. He looked up at me with his one good eye with a sort of sad, drunken look in it.

I'm pretty sure I pissed my pants, but I was too scared to know for sure. I found myself staring into the eye of the deadman, frozen for several seconds before something interupts our touching moment. A small rumble from the earth before me began to shake and quake the ground. It seemed the earth was about to split and open up when it actually _did_ break in a large crack alined to wher ethe Necromancer ran. The trail of blood lined behind him… A series of moans proceeded to burst from the ground as I struggled to get free of the man at this point I didn't mind but is now sort of annoying.

I tried yanking my foot off out of his hand, smashing the corpse's fist with my other boot and even thought of carrying the man with me but I figured that last one was out of the question. As I put my revolver right against the eye of the dead man he blinked stupidly and I quickly gazed back and was pretty sure what I was seeing would scar me.

At least seven people had climbed out of their graves. I couldn't tell man from woman from midget (one was shorter than the others and was struggling with the digging). Each was as diseased and undead as the other. They looked about until their bloodied and dry eyes fixed upon me and then proceeded to shuffle slowly towards me. I looked back at the man whom was gripping my foot and realized I wasn't the only one holding my gun.

He had his finger on the trigger and had a sad smile plastered on his face. And then his mouth open. His voice was hoarse and dust actually came out of his mouth as he spoke.

"Tell my wife Melanie I love her… and kill that son of a bitch that woke me up."

"I…you're…. Alive?" I stuttered stupidly. I felt pressure on my finger and realized he was…

The other dead folk's moans were drowned out by the bullet in my gun's chamber forcing itself out. The grasp of the dead man's hand on my boot let out and I shot up, my brain scrambling to think of what just happened.

I whirled around in search of an escape route as the path of the Necromancer was blocked by a small gang of seemingly ravenous undead who I am pretty sure had been staring hungrily at my ass, and not in a good way. As they shuffled their way towards me, I spun and hopped over the dead man's grave, taking one last look at him and his tombstone. I scrambled over the fresh mound and tripped over something that made me panic and throw my carver into it, thinking another hand burst out, but no, it was … a rock. I hopped over another tombstone and used every ounce of my leg strength to escape this hell hole.

As I left the cemetary grounds and came to the town outskirts I fell onto my knees, my lungs burning like a fire cooking a hamburger… did I mention I haven't eaten a decent meal in about 27 hours? My strength was sapped away from me as my adrenaline wore down and my brain came to slow down the thought process and instead of having the thousands of pictures, sounds and actions going at once like it had in the cemetary…I only had two words pictured in my head, and they were the two words on the dead man's tombstone and I could see only them as I drifted to sleep beside the town bar…

John Hunter


End file.
